


crazy little thing

by superfluouskeys



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, F/F, Jealousy, Unhealthy Relationships, in this house we make up canon and timelines, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-01 17:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16288571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superfluouskeys/pseuds/superfluouskeys
Summary: She is sleeping with both of them, the absolute monster, and they are young, so they don't see the games she plays.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of a prompt response for the lovely ArtWaffle142, who asked for "Fuckboi Moira and Annoyed Mercy" lol. It probably won't be that long, but felt like it needed some chapters. Also the rating will almost certainly change.

As a child, Angela always imagined a covert ops division would have some dismal underground setup, or perhaps a more medieval structure, somehow obviously foreboding at its face.  Blackwatch Base 2, codename Ruby, looks nothing like any of that.  She wouldn't have expected trees, or blue skies, or an ordinary front door, and she certainly wouldn't have expected a doorbell that chimes a cheerful melody.

The harried young woman in a lab coat who answers the door is far more familiar to her sensibilities.  "Mercy?" she asks, in a voice that wavers.  Her giant spectacles magnify large, dark eyes to comical proportions.

Angela nods, but before she can say anything else, the wide-eyed young woman pulls her quickly inside.

"We weren't sure when to expect you," she says.

"I hope I haven't put you out," says Angela.

"No, not me, it's just..."  The young woman stops and turns her too-wide gaze upon Angela, "...the Doctor is very particular."

Angela quirks a brow.  "Dr. O'Deorain, you mean?"  She hasn't heard much about her temporary coworker, but all that she has heard has borne the hint of a joke to which Angela is missing the punchline.

But the wide-eyed young woman flushes, actually turns red around the ears, and her lips curl into a smile.  "Yes," she says, rapturously.  "She likes things a certain way, you see, and I pride myself on maintaining her rigourous standards."

Angela struggles to maintain a neutral expression.  Inside she feels nearly overcome by the sort of laughter that arises from discomfort, or secondhand embarrassment.  "I see," she says, not without a hint of the amusement she feels.

"Wendy!" a voice over Angela's shoulder catches her off her guard.  She knows without thinking that she will not turn to see the infamous Doctor, for the voice is just as unsteady as that of the young woman who brought her in.  "Don't you have other things to be doing?"

"The doorbell rang and you were nowhere in sight!" says Wendy.  "What was I supposed to—"

The newcomer, whose golden blonde hair cascades from her neat ponytail in beautiful curls, grasps Wendy by the arm and whispers, "We agreed it was my job to greet our new guest."

"Fine," Wendy throws her hands skyward, and exits the room without so much as a goodbye.

"Anyway!" the newcomer turns back to Angela with affected brightness.  "I'll show you to your room now."

"And you are?" Angela prods, while her new guide is already halfway to the stairs.

"Oh!" she stops and extends her hand.  "Phoebe.  A pleasure, Doctor...I mean, Mercy."

"If you know my name," says Angela, "and I know yours, then we don't have to use code names, do we?"

"Well, I—" Phoebe falters in the middle of withdrawing her hand, and her gaze falls to the side in a meaningless direction.  "It all depends on what the Doctor wants, of course," she says.

Angela follows Phoebe's gaze skeptically.  "And what of what _this_ doctor wants?" she wonders, gesturing to herself.

Suddenly Phoebe's smile takes on a particular, knowing quality.  "Dr. O'Deorain is very particular," she says.

"So I've been told," Angela counters flatly.

Phoebe eyes her up and down, in a manner Angela would have considered insubordination on her own turf.  "People who don't meet the Doctor's standards?  Usually don't last very long."

Angela inhales slowly.  "I'll bear that in mind," she says, with a thin approximation of a smile.

Her room is so much homier than the quarters she had at Overwatch Base 1.  Sunlight filters through the leafy trees outside her window, and though her curtains are heavy and dark enough to blot out the light, they are not unpleasant to behold.  She sets down her suitcase and removes her coat while Phoebe tells her about the layout of each floor.  Angela will have her own bathroom, while Phoebe and Wendy share the one down the hall by their rooms.

She's relieved not to have to hear any more uncomfortable fawning over her coworker-to-be, but she'd be lying if she said these two impassioned accounts hadn't rendered her frightfully curious as to the true nature of the infamous Dr. O'Deorain.  The way her superiors talked back at Base 1, she was expecting someone rude and standoffish, or possibly the eccentric, volatile type.  Then again, she supposed sometimes the young and naive could be drawn to that sort of thing without knowing their affections could only lead to heartache.

When they return downstairs, Wendy is waiting for them with arms folded and frizzy brown hair significantly tamed from her first appearance.  "Took you long enough," she says by way of greeting.  "She's due for a break soon."

"I'm sorry you wasted all that time preparing to scold me for being late when I'm _not_ ," Phoebe replies crisply.

"She needs to be told before we go in—"

"Don't tell me, tell her!" Phoebe fires back as she turns to exit.

Angela watches her go, and wonders how she can feel so tired after she's just arrived.

"As I was saying," Wendy continued, "Dr. O'Deorain has asked to be notified of mealtimes and regular breaks, but only once.  If she says she's in the middle of something, we're not to disturb her again.  She doesn't like any excessive noise in the house, but she also doesn't like to be caught by surprise.  If you're coming downstairs," Wendy says as she takes to the stairs leading down, "make sure you aren't being intentionally light-footed, and do knock at least twice on the door if she doesn't answer.  If she—"

Angela reaches past Wendy and knocks.

"Come in."

Utterly different from the two voices she has encountered so far.  Low, sharp, certain.  Angela isn't afraid of some egotistical madwoman, yet her heartbeat still surges in response to that voice.

Wendy opens the heavy door to reveal a proper lab, very nearly a welcome sight after the strangeness of arriving here.  A thin, lanky woman with cropped red hair stands hunched over a work table, writing furiously with her left hand.  Her right hand, splayed upon the table to hold her balance, looks as though it has been badly injured.

"Doctor, I'm sorry to bother you, but Mercy has just arrived.  If you don't have time, we can—"

"Leave us."  Dr. O'Deorain does not look up from her work.

'We can....what?" Wendy stammers.  "But I wanted to—"

Dr. O'Deorain stops then, and looks up sharply.  Her eyes are striking, and mismatched in colour.  "Wendy," she says.  "You know I don't like to repeat myself."

Angela affords Wendy a sidelong glance.  Her head is bowed, and her ears are flushed again.  "Yes.  I'm sorry, Doctor."

Dr. O'Deorain leans forward over her work table, and the smirk that crosses her features is positively sadistic.  "Then why are you still here?" she wonders richly.

Wendy disappears behind the lab's heavy door without another word, and Angela is left alone with a monster.  "You do keep your assistants under your thumb, don't you?" she wonders drily.

Dr. O'Deorain's mischievous smirk does not fade.  "My assistants would be useless to me if they were not well-apprised of my needs."

Angela quirks a brow in response.  "One wonders why they seem to harbour such a fondness for you."

Dr. O'Deorain straightens her posture at last, revealing that she is even more uncommonly tall than she appeared at first glance.  "Well," she inclines her head thoughtfully, as though she is studying Angela, "it may surprise you to know, Dr. Ziegler, that some people derive _considerable_ pleasure from being bossed around."

Angela folds her arms and curls her lip.  "And I take it you are only too happy to oblige," she sneers.

Dr. O'Deorain strolls around the side of her work table with her hands folded behind her back, and stops near enough that Angela has to crane her neck to meet Dr. O'Deorain's eyes.

Dr. O'Deorain has not stopped smiling.  "Is that something that interests you, Dr. Ziegler?" she asks, so low and sweet that it sends a flurry of unfocused energy coursing through Angela's veins even as the context of the question turns her stomach.

"No," Angela replies, flat and forceful.

Dr. O'Deorain considers her a moment with a kind of muted fascination.  "Well then," she says quietly, affording Angela a quick once-over far subtler and smoother than that of her assistant, "I suppose that matter is none of your concern, now, is it?"

* * *

She is sleeping with both of them.  She actually is sleeping with both of them, the absolute monster!  And they are young, so they don't see the games she plays with them, sparing more attention for one for awhile and then switching to the other, spending equal time with both and then withdrawing completely for days at a time, complimenting one on what the other considers her specialty, the whole thing is sick.  It's disgusting.

Angela doesn't know how they tolerate it.  Wendy spends her free time writing a paper on Dr. O'Deorain's controversial cellular regeneration technology, while Phoebe has a harp in her room that she plays beautifully when she thinks no one can hear her.  Wendy hums the theme songs to old television shows while she cleans the house, and when Angela mentions to Phoebe that she was going to write a letter, but ran out of stamps, a page emblazoned with colourful birds sits upon her desk by the time she has finished her work for the day.

They are brilliant, and there is much to like about each of them, and oughtn't a woman like Dr. O'Deorain to know how it feels to be played, looked down upon and treated like a toy, when she knows she has so much more to offer?

Angela thinks of asking the good Doctor just that at least once per day, often first thing in the morning when she arrives in the lab to find Dr. O'Deorain already hunched over her desk, lost to the concerns of the outside world.  She wakes up certain she can hear muted weeping from the room down the hall, and she thinks she will march right in there, slam her hands down on the work table in front of Dr. O'Deorain's face, and say, _what do you think you're playing at?_

But without looking up, Dr. O'Deorain says, in a voice rendered almost gentle with exhaustion.  "Good, you're here.  I've left you the data from the tests I ran earlier.  I'd like your opinion before we set up another simulation."

And Angela begins to wonder whether Dr. O'Deorain is playing a game at all, or whether she is merely so enamoured of her work that she does not notice, does not even understand the everyday machinations of the human heart.

"You know," Angela dares, much more gently than she had intended, once silence has reigned between them for some time, "I heard Phoebe crying this morning."

"I didn't think you the type for idle gossip, Dr. Ziegler," Dr. O'Deorain replies evenly.

Angela's grip tightens upon her pencil.  "I also heard what the two of you got up to last night."

The rhythmic scratching of Moira's writing ceases, and the silence is immediately overwhelming.  "She wasn't loud," says Dr. O'Deorain, a strange mixture of irritation and curiosity.  "One wonders whether someone wasn't trying to hear."

Angela slams down her pencil, unnervingly loud in the small space.  "I cannot help but notice," she says through her teeth, "the effect you seem to have upon our young colleagues."  She turns to face Dr. O'Deorain, who is still hunched over her desk, unmoving.  "I wonder if you notice," she continues, "or if you just don't care?"

Dr. O'Deorain straightens her posture slowly.  "I'm not much of a crier, Dr. Ziegler," she says as she turns to peer down her nose at Angela, "but I am given to understand that one might shed a tear for any number of reasons wholly unrelated to myself.  While I do not wish Phoebe any strife, her personal life is none of my business."

"None of your business!" Angela cries.  "Those two are constantly at each other's throats about how best to appease the fickle fancies of the great Doctor O'Deorain, how each of them is the only one that truly understands you, how you are clearly in love with one and the other ought to just give up and leave!"  She points an accusing finger.  "That is your fault!"

Dr. O'Deorain closes the minimal distance between them, looms over Angela and narrows her eyes, but the look is not malicious, and her tone is light.  "I think perhaps you are projecting, Dr. Ziegler.  But rest assured, I'd only have eyes for you, if you'd allow it."

"You—!"  Angela closes her eyes and inhales deeply.  She will not rise to the bait.  "Let's just...get back to work," she sighs.

"Oh, Dr. Ziegler, you know my heart so well."

Angela struggles to contain a great cry of frustration into another heavy sigh.  She picks up her pencil and resumes making notes on the data Dr. O'Deorain collected.  She is brilliant, and the work is fascinating, and Angela finds her mind easily preoccupied.  Still, once her heart has stopped racing and her shoulders have relaxed, she amends, quietly, "I honestly wonder if you know what you're doing."

"My effect upon you remains an enticing mystery, Dr. Ziegler," Dr. O'Deorain replies airily.

Angela squeezes her eyes closed and sighs once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Unsurprisingly, things get much, much worse before they get better.

Dr. O'Deorain holds fast to her determination to pretend that nothing is amiss, and that any attempt to address the elephant in the room is a problem of Angela's, and not of her own devising.  Wendy lingers longer in the lab after she has been dismissed, hands clasped and ears flushed, waiting for something that will never come.  Phoebe cries audibly for two more mornings before Angela can no longer abide passing her by without comment.

"Phoebe?" she tries, with a gentle knock.

"Oh!"  A hiccup and a sniffle that hide nothing.  "Just a minute, Mercy...did you need something?"

Angela hesitates, inhales, tries again.  "Can I come in?"

"Oh, I, uh...I don't...I mean, sure, okay..."

Phoebe is still wiping furiously at her face when Angela enters, but there is no hiding the evidence of her tears.  "It's all right," says Angela gently.  "I wondered if you might like someone to talk to."

Phoebe looks up at her, bright green eyes still shining with fresh tears, then abruptly covers her face with her hand to stifle a sob.  Angela sits next to her on her bed and puts an arm around Phoebe's shoulders.

"It might help," she urges.

"I'm so stupid," says Phoebe behind her hand.

"Now I know that isn't true," says Angela.

"I am," Phoebe repeats and scrubs at her face with her sleeve.  "Wendy and I have been fighting over Dr. O'Deorain for...months," she laughs mirthlessly, "but how could either of us hold a candle to you?"

Angela coughs in a vain attempt to avoid laughing.  "Me?" she echoes.  "I think you're missing the point a bit, Phoebe."

"Am I?" Phoebe counters.  "Things were fine until you got here.  Oh, Wendy thought she had the Doctor under her thumb, the way she always made sure to clean the house when everyone could see her, the way she always slipped into the lab to leave some of the Doctor's favourite things without disturbing her work, the way she's always fawning over the Doctor's old research," Phoebe shakes her head, "but she actually talked to me, you know, before you got here.  About things other than just research, and that's important, right?  I mean, that means something, right?"

Angela doesn't know how she's meant to respond, let alone what sort of a response might be helpful.  Fortunately, the question turns out to be rhetorical.

"But then you got here," Phoebe continues, then looks up sharply.  "And don't take that the wrong way, because I really, really like you, I mean, what's not to like?  But she doesn't talk to us anymore.  Not like before.  Even when—well, she always leaves right after to go back to the lab, because she likes to have something to show you first thing in the morning!"

"She said that to you?" Angela wonders skeptically.

Phoebe sniffles.  "Well, no, but it's obvious, isn't it?"

Angela glances around the room, locates a box of tissues on the bedside table, and offers Phoebe a handful.  "I think," she says, slowly, "that if there's something you need to know, you should ask directly.  It doesn't do any good, making assumptions."

Phoebe wipes her nose and nods thoughtfully.  "You're right," she says.  "Thank you."

Angela enters the lab twenty minutes behind schedule.  Dr. O'Deorain greets her as usual.  "Good, you're here."

"Your assistant is convinced you're in love with me," Angela tells her as she takes the clipboard she is offered, with far less vitriol than she intends.

Dr. O'Deorain looks up with an unreadable expression.  They don't make eye contact often, and Angela forgets how disarming the full force of Dr. O'Deorain's gaze can be.  "Yet you remain tragically oblivious to my burning desire," she replies wryly, then returns her attention to her work.

Angela raises her eyes to the ceiling as she makes her way over to her own desk.  "You are a piece of work, thinking you can carry on like that in such a small space without incident."

"Apart from your increasingly halfhearted objections, Dr. Ziegler, there has been no incident."

As though in direct response, Wendy's telltale knock sounds at the door.  She enters with two coffees and practically tiptoes across the room to deliver them without comment.

"Thank you, Wendy," says Angela pointedly, in Dr. O'Deorain's direction.

"Hmm?" Dr. O'Deorain looks up with a subtle frown.  "Oh.  Yes, thank you."

"Of course, Doctor," Wendy effuses.  Her ears take on their usual flush, and she fidgets mercilessly just beyond Dr. O'Deorain's line of sight.

After several agonizing minutes, Dr. O'Deorain adds, without looking up, "Was there something you needed, Wendy?"

Wendy opens her mouth as though to speak, inhales, hesitates.  She looks down and straightens her skirt for what must be the fourth time.  "No, Doctor.  I'm sorry," she says miserably.

"Wendy—" Angela tries, but the door has already slammed behind Wendy's shaking shoulders.

Dr. O'Deorain startles at the sound, and looks up to consider the door with a contemplative frown before returning to her notes, unaffected.

"There's something wrong with you," Angela tells her.

To her immense surprise, Dr. O'Deorain pauses a moment.  "You wouldn't be the first to notice, Dr. Ziegler," she says quietly.

Angela stands at an impasse for far too long, debating whether she ought to press this matter or go after Wendy, or whether she ought simply to return to her work and mind her own business.  In the end she decides upon the course of action she expects to produce the most immediate results.

She finds Wendy sitting up in a tree at the side of the house.  She wishes acutely for the Valkyrie suits that were in development just before she was cruelly reassigned to this picturesque cesspool, but hoists herself up onto the nearest branch, dearth of fancy armour notwithstanding.

Wendy wipes her sleeve across her eyes one last time before donning her large spectacles to consider Angela.  "I'm sorry if I caused you any trouble," she says.

"You didn't," Angela replies.  "I just thought you might like to talk to someone."

Wendy averts her gaze and wrings her hands thoughtfully.  "I know I'm being crazy," she says, "but I don't know how to stop."

"I don't think you're being crazy," says Angela.  She understands, though, all too well, but she isn't certain whether she's ready to go into all that.

"I am, though," Wendy nods to herself.  "I know she doesn't want me, not like...but sometimes it seems like she does, and I just can't let go of the hope, you know?"

"Well," Angela traces the bark of the tree while she thinks, "what about what you want, Wendy?"

Wendy sighs, leans back against the tree and closes her eyes.  "All I want is her," she breathes.

"Besides just Dr. O"Deorain, I mean," Angela privately thinks she does a commendable job of keeping the derision out of her tone.  "What is it you want from her, exactly, or just for yourself?"

Wendy sighs again, and silence reigns between them awhile before she speaks.  "I don't want to have to fight with anyone," she says.  "And I know she appreciates the things I do for her, I know she notices, you know?  But I don't want it to feel like...like a competition, I guess.  I just want to...win.  Without playing.  Is that stupid?"

"No," says Angela softly, still idly tracing patterns upon the tree.  She closes her eyes and inhales slowly.  "It isn't stupid, Wendy.  Not at all."

"What should I do?" Wendy asks her.

Angela sighs and turns her gaze upward into the sunlight filtered through the leaves.  As if she knows, but she has come out here to help, and so she will try her best to do just that.  She reaches a hand out to Wendy, and Wendy takes it.

"I think," says Angela slowly, "you should be honest about how you're feeling.  No one can know what you want unless you tell them.  And I think that's true of both Dr. O'Deorain and of Phoebe."

Wendy squeezes her hand.  "What if it goes badly?"

"Dr. O'Deorain is a..." Angela bites the inside of her cheek, searching for something positive to say.  "Dr. O'Deorain has a lot to offer...in the realm of science.  But she might not be...the best suited...to the kind of relationship you want.  If you tell her how you're feeling and she doesn't respond well, then at least you know."

* * *

Angela Ziegler has always prided herself on giving excellent advice.  She has always tried her best to be available to her friends, her coworkers, and to relative strangers whenever they needed her, and to act as a beacon of strength for them even when her own life did not even remotely reflect the words she spoke.

Today, she is forced to consider that she may have vastly overestimated her competency.

Dr. O'Deorain's research really is fascinating, and her resources are next to unlimited.  Wary though Overwatch may be of her, they evidently place considerable faith in the work she produces.  Cellular regeneration on command is a heady concept under any circumstances, but particularly now, when their foes are not made of such fragile stuff as flesh and bone.  Perhaps, Angela considers, the reason there has been no interpersonal incident thus far is because the work is genuinely too interesting to disregard.

The lab is usually dead silent but for the rhythmic scratching of Dr. O'Deorain's pen.  Indeed, the knock at the door feels jarring this evening, almost irritating, and utterly unwelcome, and Angela internally scolds herself for feeling that way.  Work must never become more important than the people around you—that's the kind of thinking that leads brilliant minds into disaster.

Wendy and Phoebe enter the lab side by side, each with hands clasped and head bowed as though in prayer.  Angela's attachment to her reading is immediately forgotten, and she watches them with the distinct beginnings of dread settling into her stomach. 

Dr. O'Deorain doesn't look up.  "Ladies?"

"Dr. O'Deorain?" Phoebe speaks up first, with a tentative step forward.  Then, softer, reverent, "Moira."

This gets Dr. O'Deorain's attention, in the same way a bird of prey snaps its head towards the scuttling sounds of its unwitting target.

Phoebe holds her head high.  "I'm in love with you."

Dr. O'Deorain raises her eyebrows.

Before she has time to respond, Wendy steps forward.  "I'm in love with you, too."

Dr. O'Deorain raises her chin slightly as she contemplates the two of them with the utmost incredulity.  "Are you," she says at last.

"We've both been fine with the way things were," Phoebe continues.  "But things have changed.  It's not enough anymore."

"For either of us," Wendy agrees with a jerky little nod.

For a moment that feels endless, Dr. O'Deorain continues to stare at the both of them, unmoving, uncomprehending.  Finally she closes her eyes, exhales, and draws herself up to her full height.  "I am not a taskmaster by nature, ladies," she says, quietly.  "But since it seems you find yourselves with too much _time on your hands_ , I assure you I can assign you far more productive ventures with which to fill your days than idle notions of _love_."

She spits the word, not at them, but at Angela, with a sharp turn of her head and a flash of her striking eyes that feels almost sinister.  Angela startles under her sudden attention, has half a thought to indicate that this was not her intention, not what she wanted, but her mind stops short when she wonders what she could possibly have thought would happen.

"Alternatively," Dr. O'Deorain continues, still focused on Angela, before she returns her attention to Phoebe and Wendy, standing slack-jawed and horrified in her wake, "if you find your accommodations here intolerable, I can arrange for a transfer.  Good evening, ladies.  Take the rest of the night off to consider your options."

"But...Moira—" Phoebe stammers.

Dr. O'Deorain slams her hands down upon her work table and leans forward, positively radiating malice in a way Angela could never have imagined.  "Additionally," she snaps, "I would discourage you from referring to your _direct superior_ in such a fashion."

Phoebe inhales, hesitates, exhales.  Angela can see her hands trembling at her sides.

"Good evening," Dr. O'Deorain repeats, low and cold, and Phoebe and Wendy both flee from the room before her voice has ceased to resound.

The room falls deadly silent.  Dr. O'Deorain ducks her head and sighs quietly.  Angela deosn't know what she expects, but Dr. O'Deorain's tone is shockingly gentle.  "I assume this was your doing," she says, and it's almost wry, almost the same teasing lilt from before.

"No!" Angela stands, taken aback.  "No," she repeats, softer, and she doesn't know why she feels the need to temper her words in the face of this disaster.  "They were upset.  I thought—"

"You thought I could do something to solve that."  She gestures to herself, almost derisively.

Angela raises her eyes to the ceiling.  "I thought they would speak to you _privately_ ," she says.

Dr. O'Deorain chuckles, and Angela considers it a personal affront that her body should tingle in response to the sound.  "Oh, but it's all for show, Dr. Ziegler," she says.  "One who is truly beset by the plague of love does not demand it in a room full of spectators.  One who is truly distraught does not cry loudly enough for any passing stranger to hear.  What I don't understand, Dr. Ziegler," she looks up, and all the fire has left her eyes, "is what you stand to gain from fanning the flame.  Are you truly so naive?"

Angela approaches without fully meaning to, reaches out without fully realizing it.  "Are you truly so cynical," she wonders, quietly, "that you think every...irrational, human emotion is some kind of trick?"

Dr. O'Deorain looks down at Angela's outstretched hand, then back up, expression unreadable as usual.  "I've experienced very little that suggested otherwise," she replies.  "Continue working if you like, Dr. Ziegler, but I think I've had enough excitement for one evening.  I'll see you in the morning."


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning finds the house eerily silent, and completely empty.

Angela knocks on both Phoebe and Wendy's doors and receives no answer, and even goes so far as to venture into the hall on the main floor where Dr. O'Deorain sleeps, presuming she has ever left the lab before today.

She exits the house and roams around the small property, checks the treetops and the empty garage, and wonders at the improbability of this circumstance.  She has never thought to fear utter aloneness in this strange new place—indeed, her fears have most recently consisted of difficulties on the opposite end of the spectrum.

With a kind of aimlessness, she finds her way back to the lab, and the relief that courses through her when she sees the ping on her datapad is almost embarrassing.  Captain Amari is checking in on her.

"Angela!" she cries as her face appears on the screen.  "It's good to see you again."

"The same to you, Captain," Angela replies, and she can feel how strained her smile must be.

"How are you holding up out there?  Is Moira giving you too much trouble?"

"She's..." Angela inhales, sighs, and struggles for something to say.  The words she finds surprise her.  "Honestly?  I don't know what to make of her."

Captain Amari laughs.  "I'm not sure anyone does.  She is...single-minded in her pursuits, which serves her very well in the lab.  And surprisingly well in the field, would you believe?" she chuckles.  "But it does tend to lead to interpersonal tensions.  I actually thought you might be a good influence on her, but I won't leave you out there against your will."

Angela thinks about the previous evening, and how she wanted to melt into the floor under Dr. O'Deorain's steely gaze, thinks about the boiling rage she felt when she heard Phoebe crying in her room or when Dr. O'Deorain allowed Wendy to storm out of the lab without so much as an "are you all right", thinks about how she would have felt if faced with the same conduct from two of her subordinates, no matter whether the initial fault lay with her.

She'd like to discuss it with someone like Lena, who isn't professionally invested in the situation, but at the moment her only outlet is the Captain.  "I can see what you mean," says Angela at last, "but she's been perfectly civil to me.  In fact, I..." again she feels the strange surprise of a sudden revelation, "I really enjoy the work.  I do wish she wouldn't be so hard on her assistants, though—they're both very bright, and they obviously idolize her."

"Yes, I was surprised she asked to have them transferred—she seemed to like them both.  But there's really no arguing with her results, and we're more than capable of attending to the occasional eccentric genius."

"Both of her assistants transferred?" Angela echoes, stunned.  "Already?"

"Well, yes, I thought you'd have noticed by now," says Captain Amari.

"Oh, we're...taking the morning off," Angela waves a hand in a thin attempt at nonchalance.  "I just didn't know they'd be gone so soon."

"Anyway," Captain Amari continues, unfazed, "you'll have a replacement within the week, and someone will come along to check up on Moira.  You're sure you're all right out there?"

"Yes," says Angela, and hopes she sounds more certain than she feels.  "Thank you, Captain."

Captain Amari inclines her head thoughtfully.  "Maybe I should tell you, Moira asked me to make sure you didn't want a transfer, as well."

"She did?" Angela echoes, stunned yet again.

Captain Amari shrugs amicably.  "Self-awareness is a tremendous virtue, and Moira is mercifully well aware that she isn't the easiest person to work with."

Perhaps it's foolish that this strange flash of humanity should suddenly endear her colleague to her after all that transpired yesterday.  "No," says Angela, far more steadily than before.  "I want to stay.  I'm really enjoying the work, and I'm very grateful for the opportunity."

Captain Amari smirks.  "Suit yourself," she says wryly.  "But the offer stands."

* * *

Phoebe sits upright in her bed, staring at the far wall, feeling distant and numb.  She has no illusions of getting any sleep tonight.

The knock at her door is expected, and not entirely unwelcome.  Phoebe knows how this has to end, but she will be grateful for some modicum of closure to this strange, terrible, wonderful chapter of her life.

Moira ducks when she enters, just slightly too tall for the upstairs of the quaint little house that disguises her lab.  The main floor has a higher ceiling, but Moira doesn't like anyone in her room.  Phoebe has only seen the briefest flashes of it, generic and bereft of even the most basic decorations.

Moira's attention does not quite settle upon Phoebe yet.  She surveys the room a moment, hands clasped together, and only when she lays down her burden does Phoebe realize she is carrying flowers.  The soft lamplight obscures their true shape, but she can see that they are pink, and wrapped with a ribbon.

"I'm sorry I've hurt you," says Moira quietly.  "Dr. Ziegler told me she heard you crying, and I did nothing.  I was certain it didn't pertain to me, but I wonder now if I was mistaken."

"You were," says Phoebe.  "I mean, it did.  But I should have known...I'm sorry about earlier."  The memory twists her gut, floods her with the sickening sting of embarrassment. 

But Moira waves a hand dismissively.  "You...spoke your mind," she says, not without a twisted sort of humour.  She still isn't looking at Phoebe, and Phoebe is grateful for it.  Her eyes...pierce, and Phoebe knows how this has to end.

"It was..." Phoebe closes her eyes.  "Deeply embarrassing.  And it's not...well, it's not who I want to be, at least."

Moira traces the stem of one of the flowers with her finger, nods slowly.  "I'll be sorry to lose you."

"As an assistant," says Phoebe.  "Not as a girlfriend."  It isn't a question.  It can't afford to be.

Moira lets out a little huff of amusement, and says nothing else.

Phoebe squeezes her eyes closed again, tighter, and she feels words she knows she shouldn't say bubbling to the surface without her permission.  "What about Mercy?"

"What about her?"

"Do you love her?'  The word feels like a weight in the pit of her stomach, dragging her down.  She swallows hard and opens her eyes.

Moira chuckles quietly.  "I never realized you were such a romantic, Phoebe," she says, with an uncharacteristic warmth that rends Phoebe's heart.  "I think I'd better release you from my company before you lose sight of those ideals."

Phoebe scoots to the edge of her bed and reaches for Moira's hand.  Moira turns over her shoulder to regard Phoebe directly at last.  Her blue eye catches the dim light from the lamp, and her lips twitch into a small smile.  Phoebe feels a fresh wave of emotion wash over her, some distant ache for something that will never be.

* * *

Once Wendy has cried herself out, she takes to pacing, seized by a terrible anxiety she would have hoped she'd be too exhausted to entertain.

She considers throwing herself at Dr. O'Deorain's mercy, begging forgiveness and to put things right, whether or not that means their previous relationship can continue.  Wendy doesn't even have the words for the impact Dr. O'Deorain has had on her life, and she is reluctant to leave because of a personal failing.

It's not merely Dr. O'Deorain's genius, not merely that she revolutionized the medical world with her research, not even that she was publicly disgraced for her methods and persevered.  It's that she bears the brunt of the world's distaste for her with aplomb.  When Overwatch operatives stop by to throw thinly-veiled barbs in her direction, not only does she barely bat an eyelid, she reminds them that they need her more than she needs them.

The trouble is that the attributes Wendy admires most in Dr. O'Deorain are the same ones that have come to render Wendy miserable.

Dr. O'Deorain knocks at her door around one in the morning.  The sound sends a cold shock of panic coursing through her, and she can feel her heart hammering in her ears as she answers.

The doorframe obscures the top of Dr. O'Deorain's head, and her shoulders are hunched.  Wendy quickly backs away so that she can come in, and wonders what it must be like not to fit properly into a room.  Dr. O'Deorain extends her hands, and Wendy realizes she is holding flowers.

Wendy looks up, bewildered.

"I'm..." Dr. O'Deorain averts her eyes, "sorry I've hurt you."

"No!" Wendy stammers, stunned.  "No, I should apologize!  I mean, I was going to.  Need to.  I was...earlier, it was..."

Dr. O'Deorain holds up a hand, and Wendy falls silent.  She offers the flowers a second time, and Wendy sees no choice but to accept them.

"Unprofessional, perhaps, but my inaction is largely to blame," says Dr. O'Deorain.  She folds her hands behind her back and focuses her attention on the open window on the far wall of Wendy's room.  "The issue was brought to my attention earlier, but I assumed the problem was not mine to solve.  Dr. Ziegler doesn't think very highly of my character, and yet still manages to expect more of me than I can deliver."

Phoebe thinks that Dr. O'Deorain has eyes for Dr. Ziegler, and that's the reason she's lost interest in the both of them.  Though Wendy finds the notion absurd, Dr. O'Deorain's words lend it sudden and surprising credence.  Desperation to please a person who remains maddeningly aloof is hardly an unfamiliar concept to Wendy, but the idea of Dr. O'Deorain in the role Wendy now occupies does not compute.

"I don't expect..." Wendy begins, faltering.  "I mean, I wanted to...today.  Can we just...forget that ever happened?  I got caught up in the moment.  I don't want to...leave, because of something so silly."

Dr. O'Deorain turns her head, little more than a shadow of elegant lines and sharp angles against the far wall, and Wendy approaches hesitantly.  "Is that what you want?" Dr. O'Deorain asks.  "To...pretend today never happened?"

"Yes," Wendy breathes, truthfully.  Relief courses through her at the thought.  They can pretend today never happened, and maybe Phoebe won't be so agreeable, and so the Doctor will shower Wendy with attention for awhile, and maybe Phoebe will leave, and even if Dr. O'Deorain does have eyes for Dr. Ziegler, Dr. Ziegler isn't even interested in Dr. O'Deorain, and maybe now everything will be perfect.

Dr. O'Deorain turns around, and Wendy catches the loose sides of her shirt between her fingers.  She looks up, doe-eyed and plaintive, and she says what she thinks Dr. O'Deorain wants to hear.  "Please.  Let me make it up to you."

It seems to have the desired reaction.  Dr. O'Deorain's sharp eyes grow dark and heavy-lidded, and she rests her hands on Wendy's hips, drawing her subtly nearer.  She leans in, and Wendy reaches up to drag her down into a kiss.  She will be fine with this.  This does not have to end because of something so silly.  And who is she to say she's in love, anyway?  She doesn't have to be in love.  She can control this.  Everything is going to be perfect now.

Wendy falls back onto her bed, and Dr. O'Deorain does not follow.  Wendy looks up hazily, reaching out for the dark shadow above her, but Dr. O'Deorain's face is wrought with concern.

"I'm sorry, Wendy," she says, eyes trained on the far wall.  "I can't, this is...I'm sorry."

She leaves abruptly, a passing shadow in the night, not quite real, and Wendy wonders whether she has dreamt up the whole encounter in her despair.  Fresh sobs wrack her body until she is too tired to form another conscious thought worthy of tears.  Sometime around dawn, she gets a ping on her datapad, and she packs the rest of her things in a sort of daze.

* * *

Angela makes dinner for herself around sunset, and pours a generous helping of wine to accompany it.  All day she has felt too out of step to get any work done, and too keyed up to relax.  The front door opens well into Angela's second glass, and Dr. O'Deorain startles at the sight of her.

"Oh," she says.  "I didn't...think you'd still be here."

Angela traces the rim of her glass with her fingertip, feeling awkward.  "What, because of yesterday?" she wonders quietly.  "I've seen worse."

Dr. O'Deorain quirks an eyebrow, considers her a moment.  "Hm," she says.  "If that's true, I don't envy you."

Angela looks up, and of all the things she can think to say, the first that comes out is, "They're both gone."

Dr. O'Deorain averts her eyes, nods.  "Wendy wanted to stay, but I..."

"Will you miss them?" Angela wonders.

Dr. O'Deorain lets out a little huff of laughter.  "As assistants, yes."

Angela stands and retrieves another glass.  Her body feels clumsy and heavy, and her thoughts are blissfully muted.  "But not as girlfriends," she guesses.

Dr. O'Deorain shakes her head, gaze still focused to one side, revealing only her blue eye.

Angela pours her a glass of wine and holds it out.  "And me?" she dares.

Dr. O'Deorain turns her head, considers first the proffered glass and then Angela.  "I'm surprised you stayed," she says.

She curls her long fingers around the base of the glass so that she just barely touches Angela's hand.  Angela blames the wine for her own slowness to let go.

"Just...don't seduce your new assistant," says Angela, belatedly.

Dr. O'Deorain narrows her eyes, but her tone is light, and her lips hint at a smile.  "Why?" she wonders, leaning in.  "You want me all to yourself?"

Angela feels herself smiling without meaning to, ducks her head and turns away in a vain attempt to hide it.  "However would you manage with only one woman, Moira?"  She dares the first name even knowing how poorly Dr. O'Deorain reacted when Phoebe said it, and again blames the wine for her recklessness.  "I don't like competition."

She feels Dr. O'Deorain's presence behind her suddenly, much closer than they've ever been.  "Rest assured, _Angela_ ," she says, low and sweet, and the sound sends delicious tingles coursing through Angela's body.  Angela turns around to find she must look up to meet Moira's piercing gaze, and her self-assured smirk is not nearly as infuriating as Angela would like it to be.  "I would only have eyes for you, if you'd allow it."

"I can't tell if you're teasing," Angela breathes before she can think better of it.

Moira leans in.  "I can't tell if you want me to be," she retorts.

Angela closes her eyes and inhales slowly, tries to focus on something other than the warmth of Moira's body or the elegant angles of her face or the striking colour of her eyes.  "I think..." she says, carefully, "that you're more charming than I gave you credit for.  But I won't be played." 

She takes in another shaky breath and steps away, places the table between Moira and herself and retrieves her own wine glass.  "And I won't be driven away from here when you suddenly decide you're bored with me," she finishes.

Angela retreats up the stairs and into her room, and it is only by the grace of two very large glasses of wine that she is granted any semblance of slumber.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good, you're here."

Angela responds with a strangled, "Hmmm" and a toast of her coffee mug.

Moira glances up briefly.  "How are you feeling, Dr. Ziegler?" she wonders evenly.

"Can we dispense with the formalities?" says Angela into her coffee.  "Or does the mere sound of your given name send you into a rage?"

"It doesn't," says Moira, sounding perplexed.  "And we can, if you like.  I assumed I owed the use of my given name last night to an excess of wine."

"Only because I hadn't thought to be afraid of upsetting you," Angela replies pointedly.

"You're referring to the incident with Wendy and Phoebe," says Moira, needlessly, but Angela can see her thinking while she speaks.  "I don't enjoy such displays, if that's what you're thinking, nor am I naturally temperamental.  However, I had hoped our young friends might glean that impression."

Angela nearly chokes on her coffee.  "You wanted to scare them?"

Moira nods, unaffected.  "Out of fancying themselves in love with me, yes."

"Did you even _consider_ ," Angela shakes her head, incredulous, "I don't know, talking to them, like a rational person?"

Moira turns on her, with the same sharpness that gave her pause before.  "Have you ever tried to reason with one person in the midst of an emotional display, let alone two, feeding off of one another?"

"No," Angela fires back, standing, "I somehow managed to avoid that by not sleeping with my assistants!"

Moira advances, looming over her, with the faintest shadow of a cold smile.  "Then it escapes me why you see yourself as an expert on my affairs."

"You are—!" Angela balls up her fists at her sides, but she swallows whatever she meant to say and groans instead.

"Anyway, I talked to both of them later, individually."

Angela throws up her hands.  "I don't need the sordid details."

"Mind out of the gutter, Dr. Ziegler," Moira continues, tone quite suddenly back to light and teasing.  "I apologized for my inaction, and I'll have you know I did not take advantage of Wendy's insane desire to return to our previous arrangement despite what transpired."

Angela scoffs.  "Would you like a medal?"

"You are feisty today, Dr. Ziegler.  And here I thought you were frightened of my violent temper."

Angela takes a long sip of her coffee and sighs, leaning heavily upon her desk.  "I don't know what to make of you," she says, then, with a pointed glance over her shoulder, amends, "Moira."

Moira's lips twitch into a smile, one that holds no malice, but also no mirth.  "Careful," she says as she turns back to her own workspace.  "Familiarity breeds contempt."

—-

Contrary to Moira's assertion, the week that follows is like a breath of fresh air after the nightmare that preceded it.  They work alongside one another in quiet harmony, and since they've no assistants, they venture out together to retrieve the things they require for the basic functions of life.

The grocery store is a forty minute walk from the house, and it is only open until four in the afternoon.  On the walk they laugh about the dreadful excuses for meals they made for themselves when they were in school.  Moira reveals that her mother was a staunch traditionalist, and that she never really learned to cook in her youth as a misguided act of rebellion.  Angela teases her, but is eventually forced to confess that she, too, was guilty of leaning on her subordinates for a decent meal as soon as she had the option.

Between the two of them, groundbreaking scientists that they are, they decide they can concoct a decent soup and assemble a basic sandwich.  On the walk home, Angela confesses that she ought to have learned to cook during her time in the orphanage.

"Orphanage?" Moira echoes.

Angela nods.  "My parents died in the war."

"How old were you?"

"Five or six?" Angela shrugs.  "I don't remember.  Suddenly I wasn't a child any longer.  There were younger children, and children who didn't have the capacity to take care of others.  I was angry that the burden fell to me, and I didn't do a good job of it.  I hoped the caretaker would put someone else in charge."

"But?" Moira presses.

"She didn't care," Angela sighs.  "The job got done, no matter what toll it took.  I was lucky that I met the Lindholm family.  Without them, I don't know what would have become of me."

"Lindholm," Moira echoes thoughtfully.  "Hence, Overwatch?"

"In a roundabout way, I suppose," Angela nods.  "It's easier to conceptualize working for a military organization when it's full of the people you know and love.  Many of them helped me once.  I thought the least I could do would be to return the favour."

"Hm," says Moira, and she puts her free hand in her pockets while she thinks.  "It is fascinating to me how such operations secure loyalty.  Honestly I thought you might be foolish enough to believe in their insipid propaganda."

"What?  That Overwatch is a force for all that's good and right?" Angela laughs mirthlessly.  "I don't agree with a lot of what Overwatch does, but it does something when no one else will."

"Action above all else, then?" Moira wonders.

"Well, look at you," Angela continues.  "Where would the field of medicine be if not for your research?  And I'm given to understand that the rest of the world wanted to end your career."

"I doubt you'd agree with much of what I did to obtain my results, either," says Moira quietly.

"But does it matter what I think?" Angela wonders.  "It's over now, and I couldn't have done half of my own work without your research."

"Perhaps it should matter, to someone," says Moira.

Angela turns on her and stops in her path.  "Does it matter to you?"

"It can't matter to me," says Moira, still in that strange, quiet tone that sets Angela's nerves on edge.  "When something matters too much to you, that's when you falter, second-guess yourself, because you want it to go right, now, this time," she points downward to emphasize her words, as though she is referring to the two of them and not to something long past, "because you care too much.  If I cared, if I allowed myself to care when I was developing that life-saving tech you tout as your inspiration, it would never have happened.  Not in my lifetime."

"And the people you hurt?" Angela dares.

Moira leans in, not quite angry, but firm.  "Were willing participants."

They spend the remainder of the afternoon in silence, and with no assistant to stop them, they work late into the evening.  When the numbers on the page begin to blur together, Angela rubs her eyes and glances up at the clock.

"My god, it's nearly eleven!"

"Hm?" Moira glances up, blinks slowly.  "Ah.  So it is.  My apologies for keeping you late.  I mentioned I'm not a taskmaster."

Angela scoffs, but the comment brings the uncomfortable memory to the forefront of her mind once more.  Strange, how long ago it seems already.  "Where did you transfer them?"

Moira waves a hand dismissively, attention focused on hanging her lab coat.  Before this week, Angela had never seen her out of it.  "I left it up to Amari.  Better I don't know.  Top secret black ops division and all."

"You're not the least bit curious?" Angela dares, following after her.

"Intellectually, perhaps, but it's none of my business," says Moira.  "I'm certain they'll both do quite well, and I'm not the sort of person one asks for a reference."

Angela sighs.  "I don't mean to press the issue, it's just unfathomable to me that they both cared so deeply for you, and you cast them off so easily."

Moira scoffs.  "Did they?  What did they know about me, do you suppose?  What endeared me to them?  My infamous research?  My superficial charm?  I daresay both of those attributes impressed you briefly, and yet you did not fancy yourself enamoured of me by any stretch of the imagination."

Angela pauses halfway to retrieving the vegetables they purchased earlier.  "Something else that baffles me," she says, carefully, "is how a person can be so sure of herself, and yet so certain no one could find anything worth liking about her beneath the surface."

"It's not a matter of self-esteem," Moira replies, surprised.  "I'm aware of my virtues and of my shortcomings."

"I suppose," says Angela thoughtfully.  She glances over her shoulder and catches Moira just as she looks away.  "But we're all blind to at least a few of each."

—-

The following Sunday, Angela intends to sleep in.  She is awoken before dawn by voices downstairs, not precisely hostile, but decidedly tense.

"...and Jack has sent you to play politics?  How very telling."

"Jack sent me to check up on you, Moira," a man's voice replies.  Angela thinks she recognizes it, vaguely, as though she's never heard it in person.  "You have a reputation of scaring off everyone else."

"Healthy trepidation is a virtue, Gabriel," Moira replies crisply.  "Situational awareness could save your life."

Gabriel chuckles mirthlessly.  "And what, you're the trial by fire?"

"Precisely."

"Well, just try not to spook your new assistant—she thinks the world of you, for whatever reason.  Oh," the man, whose face Angela is sure she ought to recognize, turns to acknowledge her, "and this must be the famous Dr. Ziegler.  Gabriel Reyes, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He doesn't smile, but affords her a little nod.

"Of course!" says Angela, with forced brightness.  "The pleasure is all mine, Commander Reyes."

"Would you mind showing your new guest around?" Reyes asks, inclining his head toward the front door.  "The good Doctor and I have some business to discuss before I go."

"Of course," Angela hazards a glance in Moira's direction, but she is standing tall with hands folded behind her back, wearing her usual mask of cocksure derision.

As if on cue, the front door bursts open, and a young woman enters, heaving a large suitcase.  "Wow, this is such a lovely little house!" she exclaims.  "I admit I was sort of expecting—oh!"

She stops short when she sees Moira, and Angela loathes the strange flash of anxiety that seizes her.  She shares few physical traits with either Wendy or Phoebe, and yet somehow looks exactly the same, gazing wide-eyed up at her idol.

"Lydia, Dr.'s O'Deorain and Ziegler," says Commander Reyes.  "Dr. Ziegler will show you around while Dr. O'Deorain briefs me on her work."

"Wow, it is just such an honour to meet you, Dr. O'Deorain," Lydia enthuses.  "I mean, really, your work changed everything, I mean I wouldn't even be—anyway!  It is an honour and a privilege to be here, Dr. O'Deorain."

Angela looks at Moira.  She hasn't moved, but there is a spark of amusement in her eyes.

"The pleasure is all mine," says Moira richly.

Lydia positively glows.  "I promise I will not let you down."

Angela's stomach twists.


	5. Chapter 5

As it turns out, Lydia waxes effusive on a number of topics besides the great Dr. O'Deorain.  She is also a big fan of the Overwatch operative known as Tracer (Lena Oxton's codename), the nature and origin of codenames in general amongst Overwatch operatives, the pretty ribbons she uses to tie back her dark hair, and dogs, a matter upon which, to Angela's immense surprise, Moira agrees heartily.

"I had a pair of Dobermans in my twenties," she says one morning as she passes through the kitchen.  "A mixed blessing, so to speak—the elder was a trained service dog for an acquaintance who passed away, and I wasn't willing to admit I could use the assistance at the time."

"I've never heard of a Doberman as a service dog," says Lydia, leaning forward and clutching her coffee raptly.

"Very smart animals," says Moira, but before she can reach the coffee pot, Lydia practically launches herself out of her seat to pour it for her.  Moira startles and takes an unsteady step back.  "Eager to please," she amends, dryly.

"But could they pour your coffee?" Angela wonders, not without a hint of misplaced vitriol.

Moira struggles valiantly to suppress her surprised chuckle, and she looks over at Angela with a studious half-smile.  "No," she says slowly, as though measuring her words carefully, "in that respect, our young guest is superior."

Guilt washes ice-cold over Angela, but if Lydia understands what has been implied, she gives no indication.  "I always had little dogs growing up," she says, unfazed.  "Less clever and more snuggly."

"Perhaps I ought to give that a try next time," says Moira, still directed at Angela.

"That does sound like it would suit your interests," Angela replies coolly, even as a fresh wave of guilt roils in her stomach.

"Better make the coffee a bit stronger next time, Lydia," says Moira, voice rich with good humour.  "Our Dr. Ziegler is in rare form this morning."

Only pride prevents Angela from storming off to the lab without so much as finishing her breakfast.  Instead she averts her eyes and sips her coffee in mortified silence, trying very hard not to wonder at her motivation for behaving so coldly.

Work grants her only so much distraction.

Thus far their experiments have been performed in a sort of vacuum, releasing biotic energy and monitoring its properties.  It is at Angela's own request that they've performed these sorts of tests so extensively.  Moira would have liked to push forward sooner, evidently indifferent to the fact that in order to test healing technology, a subject must first be hurt.

"I understand your objection, Angela, but we'll have to move forward eventually," says Moira evenly.  Her words are firm, but without malice.  "What would you have me do?  Ship my life's work off to Gibraltar to keep the tests away from your sensitive eyes?"

"I just think there has to be a better way," says Angela, perhaps a bit sullenly.  "But I didn't come here to hinder you, whatever you might think."

Moira looks up.  "You are in a foul mood today, Dr. Ziegler," she says curiously.  "Have I given you reason to believe yourself unwelcome here?"

"Don't play your mind games with me!" Angela snaps.  Her anger is sudden and inexplicable, and the sheer force of it is dizzying.  "I'm dreadfully sorry I ruined your cozy little set-up out here, taking advantage of god-knows-how-many young women who idolize you, and running your mad experiments without anyone to stop you because 'oh, we can't argue with her results!'  You wanted me to leave when Wendy and Phoebe did!"

"That isn't true at all," says Moira, infuriatingly unaffected.

"Don't lie to me.  You asked the Captain to make _sure_ I didn't want a transfer—"

"Because I thought you were unhappy here."

"I was unhappy because of how you treated those girls, not because of the work!"

"I didn't...mean to hurt them," Moira holds open her hands, stiffly, as though reaching for something she cannot speak.  "I don't...understand why you're upset now."

"Because you are doing the same thing with Lydia!" Angela cries, jabbing Moira in the diaphragm with her pointer finger.

"What?  Being friendly?" Moira steps back, startled.

"Flirting!"

Moira scoffs.  "If that is your idea of flirting, Dr. Ziegler, it is no wonder you've no life of your own to attend to."

"You are!" Angela insists.  "You are, and you don't even think about it!  She lights up the room when she looks at you, and you have the audacity to tell me that doesn't affect you?"

Moira's lips twist into a cold smile.  "Forgive me for enjoying a bit of honest praise," she retorts.  "You'll understand I don't receive a great deal of it."

"Oh, no, I understand _perfectly_ ," Angela fumes, advancing on Moira.  "Poor, rejected Dr. O'Deorain, the misunderstood genius!  You let these girls fall all over themselves for you because it makes you feel powerful, it makes you feel loved, when really, you have _nothing_."

"Nothing," says Moira, low and dark, "but my work."

And perhaps Angela wanted her to shout back, to tower over her and spit vitriol the way she did to Phoebe and Wendy.  But Moira's shoulders are hunched, her eyes downcast, her cheeks flushed, not with rage, but with shame.

"I know what I have to offer, Angela," says Moira quietly.  "And it is nothing in the realm of love, or even real companionship.  I don't understand...people, outside of what they usually want, and people certainly don't understand me."  She looks up, mismatched eyes shining, somehow more striking than ever before.  "But I know I'm right about this." She gestures to her notes, scattered across her work table.  "I am certain enough of this to forsake everything else.  Anything else.  And so I have been forced to do."

Moira closes her eyes, inhales, and lets out a shaky sigh.  She turns her back on Angela, and suddenly the room feels cold without the heat of her gaze.

"Moira—" Angela reaches out.

"Leave, if you like," Moira cuts her off.  "Or keep working.  It makes no difference to me."

Against her better judgement, Angela does not back down.  She curls her fingers at the crook of Moira's elbow.  Moira flinches, but does not pull away.

"I owe you an apology," says Angela.  Though Moira isn't looking at her, Angela bows her head and closes her eyes against her own shame.  "For this morning, and for just now.  I didn't mean what I said."

"Hm."  Moira doesn't move, but her head turns subtly.  "But you're right."

"No," Angela tugs on her arm, and to her surprise, Moira allows herself to be pulled.  "This week?  I've loved spending time with you."

Moira's gaze snaps up, and Angela is very nearly overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it.

"I was..." Angela falters, sure of what she must confess but utterly uncertain of whether she is physically capable.  "Maybe I was a little...jealous," she says, and the word comes with a jolt of terrible anxiety.  "Afraid you would...cast me aside."

"And why should you care?" Moira wonders, sounding tired.  "I think your problem, Angela, is that you expect me to be better than I am."

"Do I?" Angela counters.  Without fully realizing it, she brings her free hand to rest upon Moira's other arm.  "You apologized to Phoebe.  Wendy offered you an out, and you didn't take it.  You transferred Wendy because you knew it was the best thing for her."

Moira's gaze falls to Angela's hand on her arm, and her brow furrows in thought.  Finally, she glances up, as though a fresh thought has just occurred to her.  "Jealous?" she wonders, and quirks an eyebrow.

And, oh, Angela knows she ought to stop this before it begins.  She knows that even if everything Moira has said is true, that she behaved the way she did not out of malicious self-interest but because she genuinely did not see the problem until it was too late, then that means Moira will break her heart without even meaning to, perhaps without even realizing it.

But Angela is only human, and possesses only so much self-restraint, and the full force of Moira's attention is more than she can withstand.  She feels herself beginning to smile.  "Don't flatter yourself," she teases, and pushes Moira gently away, but Moira catches her hand, and Angela allows herself to be caught.

"Why should I," Moira counters, low and rich with renewed good humour, "when you're doing it for me?"

Moira draws her closer, gradually, as though time has slowed to accommodate them, and as she leans down, Angela could swear she feels herself leaning in against her own will.  Moira's hands are strong and her body is warm, and the mere notion of the closing distance between them sends a fresh jolt of electricity coursing through Angela's body that has nothing to do with fear or embarrassment.

But this will not end well.  Angela has already seen Moira press every advantage she's offered, perhaps even without realizing it, and Angela was just upset—furious—a few moments ago, and there is still so much left unsaid between them, and—

" _Moira_ ," Angela breathes, perhaps a bit desperately, and pushes against her arms.

"Hm."

"We shouldn't—"

A knock at the door startles them both, and Angela practically jumps backward before it opens.

"Lunch break!" Lydia announces jovially.  "There was still some sandwich stuff left over, so I took the liberty of making up a plate for each of us.  Nothing special, you know, but I think a nicely-arranged plate can really put the pep back in your step!"

Angela blinks.  Moira clears her throat.

Lydia points an accusing finger, but her demeanour remains cheerful.  "And don't you tell me you're right in the middle of something—this break is non-negotiable.  You'll work much better if you eat at regular intervals, which is exactly why I'm here, isn't it?"

"Of course, Lydia," says Angela, and resists the urge to look sideways at Moira.  "Thank you."

Lydia beams at the both of them, either blissfully unaware, or steadfastly determined to ignore the tension that hangs between them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little warning: this chapter contains some discussion of cancer/terminal illness, and a bit of what could be classified as animal cruelty.

When Angela has left the lab for the evening, Moira turns her attention to a personal project.  It's her opinion that they've done all they can do on their joint work without live subjects, and running the same tests over and over again when there's no need would bore even a far more patient woman.

One of Moira's earliest projects was a matter of considerable personal interest: she was tasked with halting an unclassified degenerative genetic disorder in her own body.  She was uncharacteristically candid earlier in the day, for reasons that are unclear to her, but mercifully was not pressed on the specifics of her early twenties.  She spent the better part of those years convinced they would be her last, alternating wildly between a bitter disregard for the cruelty of her fate and a grim determination to make something of her limited time, even if that something was too late to save herself.

The dogs might well have saved her life.  She was nearly deaf around that time, and unwilling to admit she was rapidly losing sight in her left eye and muscle in her right arm.  But the dogs forced her to take care of them, and in doing so motivated her to continue her work even as she felt her own body betraying her.

Her body in its current state is not without its quirks.  The right arm, for example, never went back to the way it once was, and it retains a strange numbness that responds especially curiously to the biotic healing tests.  Moira has long wondered whether she might harness this half-formed notion—essentially, whether she could fashion a device to absorb biotic energy and store it for transferrence via the tech she's testing with Angela.

But Moira has been explicitly warned that Angela doesn't approve of weaponizing biotic tech as a rule, and Moira is loath to ruffle any more feathers than she has already.  Personal conflict aside, their working relationship has thus far been exemplary.  Of course it's only a matter of time before they clash on that front, but Moira would prefer, perhaps selfishly, to put that off for as long as possible.

There's a knock at the lab door so quiet Moira almost doesn't register it, and when she glances up at the clock, it is two in the morning.

"Dr. O'Deorain?" Lydia enters tentatively.  "Oh!"

Perhaps for show, Moira releases the biotic stream they've been observing ad nauseam into the test chamber, then flicks the switch on her own rudimentary prototype.  The chamber lights up like an electrical storm, and the biotic energy seems to convulse before their eyes.

"What was that?" Lydia wonders, still lingering in the doorframe.

"A rough first attempt," says Moira thoughtfully.  She nods slowly to herself.  "Promising."

"Well..." Lydia hedges.  "It's...very late, you know."

"Yes, so it is," says Moira, and she is about to leave it at that before she realizes she has not bothered to brief Lydia upon her preferences in the same way she did to her previous assistants.  "Thank you, Lydia, but I don't think I'll be getting any sleep just now."

"I'll make you some tea," says Lydia, with a bit more certainty than before.  "You'll work better if you rest, you know."

And before Moira can respond, Lydia is gone, door closed gently behind her.  Moira sighs and nods again to herself.  She is reminded of how she felt when she was dying, irritated that anyone should dare try to keep her from sabotaging her own progress, and concedes, privately, that perhaps it is better to allow for help even when she is not aware she needs it.

She takes down some readings from the test chamber in a notebook separate from her notes on the biotic stream, and sets about tidying up the lab for the night.

She emerges from the basement to the smell of peppermint tea.

"Perfect timing!" says Lydia, with her usual cheerful tone, but she looks decidedly sleepy.

"Thank you, Lydia," says Moira, "but don't let me keep you up."

"Not at all," says Lydia, two teacups in hand.  "I've always been a bit of a night owl."  She sets down the cups and then looks up suddenly.  "Unless you're trying to be rid of me, that is."

"Not at all," Moira echoes as she retrieves her teacup from across the table.  "I'd be glad of the company."

Lydia smiles warmly and sits across from her.  "I imagined it might get lonely out here."

"I'm sure you'll be singing a different tune in a few weeks, seeing the two of us day in and day out," Moira counters wryly.  "Especially if you take to working nights."

"Oh, I don't think I could ever be bored working for you," Lydia effuses, then averts her gaze, embarrassed.  "Sorry.  I don't mean to gush.  I'm sure you hear a lot of that."

And though Moira's initial response is a rush of warmth, the uneasy glow of pride, her second is to wonder whether this is what Angela is referring to, the guileless admiration of her much younger assistants of which she takes advantage without entirely intending it.

"On the contrary," she says, anyway.  "An honest compliment is never unwelcome."

Lydia looks up, wide-eyed and thoughtful.  "Do you mind if I tell you you're a lot different than I thought you'd be?"

Moira inclines her head.  "I suppose that depends on how you thought I'd be."

Lydia frowns then, and taps her finger against her lip.  "Difficult, maybe," she says.  "I enjoy this sort of work, because I get to meet interesting people, but I've also grown accustomed to...strong personalities."

Moira lets out a huff of amusement and takes a sip of her tea.  "Well," she says wryly, "you haven't been here long."

Lydia lights up when she laughs, and her eyes shine with such honest mirth that Moira feels almost compelled to pursue it.  But Angela, who has asked very little of her thus far, has asked that she not do this, and Moira endeavours to be a woman of her word whenever possible.

In any event, it is the happiness, and the open admiration, that attracts her, and not the person.  This could not be made more achingly clear to Moira than when at last sleep claims her for a few short hours, and her dreams are haunted by impossible visions of Angela with the same look about her eyes.

* * *

Angela's dreams are far less innocent.

Her thoughts take vague shapes, soft light as though from her bedside lamp superimposed upon the lab back at Gibraltar, Moira looming over her fully dressed while Angela is naked, and a fire between her legs that she has not experienced in an eternity.  She wakes suddenly, gasping for air, vision white around the edges and still with the memory of Moira's lips so near to hers, Moira's hand between her legs, Moira's full, undivided attention.

Angela swallows hard, and blinks until her vision clears.  Downstairs she can hear laughter.

She takes several deep breaths before she rises, and finds she is in immediate need of a shower before she can appear in civil society.  All things considered, it's not exactly unexpected that she should have a sex dream involving Moira, it's just that it's been so long since she's felt even the barest beginnings of desire.  Indeed, ever since the disaster that was her last proper liaison, she has wondered whether she wouldn't be better off spending the rest of her life devoted to her work, rather than worrying about such stupid, pointless, agonizing—

"Oh, good morning, Dr. Ziegler!"

"Good morning, Lydia." Angela drags a hand across her face, and cannot keep the irritation out of her voice.

"I made the coffee a bit stronger today, per Dr. O'Deorain's suggestion," Lydia continues brightly.  "But if you like your coffee a certain way, just tell me and I'll get right on it!"

Though Angela's stomach twists at the mention of yesterday's exchange, the coffee carries the perfect kick, and Angela feels immediately much closer to the realm of acceptable human interaction.  "It's perfect, actually," she says, with a weak smile, but Lydia glows under her praise, nonetheless.

"Oh, and the live subjects you ordered should be coming in around noon," Lydia amends.

Angela winces.  "Ah.  Of course."

"Is something the matter?"

"Oh," Angela shakes her head.  "A necessary evil.  I suppose I'd better tell Moira she'll be saddled with the worst of it.  The animals I had to prepare for testing when I was doing my own research still haunt me to this day."

"And you think Dr. O'Deorain will be fine with it?" Lydia wonders, and it's the first trace of skepticism Angela has heard in her voice thus far.

Angela takes another sip of her coffee while she considers how to answer such an odd question without coming off too bluntly.  "If there is something Dr. O'Deorain wouldn't do to further her research," she says, carefully, "I've yet to uncover it."

Moira greets her with the usual, "Good, you're here," and Angela finds cause to worry that she is growing awfully accustomed to hearing those words each day.  "I expect Lydia told you to expect your worst nightmare after lunch?"

"Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that," says Angela, as she struggles to push vague and unsettling notions to the back of her mind.  "I really can't hurt an animal, Moira, I mean—"

"Not a problem, Angela," Moira waves a hand dismissively.

And Angela falters, because she had a speech prepared, expected Moira to counter her at least on principle, or even to call her professionalism into question.  "Oh...are you sure?"

"Of course," says Moira lightly.  "I was made acutely aware of your sensitivities before your superiors would allow their golden child to darken the doors of my lab.  It's not a problem, Angela."

Perhaps this ought to be unsettling, Moira's cavalier attitude or the offhand reference to coddling from her superiors back at Gibraltar, but instead, Angela is overcome by a dreadful and frightening rush of gratitude.

 _Thank you, Moira_ , she should say, and leave it at that, but the words catch in her throat, and she feels all the more embarrassed for the absurdity of it.  She steels herself, instead, pushes this strange, muddled emotion down with all the other thoughts she doesn't wish to entertain this morning, and instead turns from her own desk and wraps her arms around Moira, tightly, but briefly.

Moira startles, and seems to withdraw into herself ever so slightly when Angela pulls away, but "As I said, it's no trouble," she mutters, and when at last Angela dares a glance over her shoulder, Moira's cheeks are flushed, and she bears a small, subtle smile.

* * *

Right on schedule, a telltale sort of vehicle pulls up into their driveway, and Lydia retrieves a box containing three rabbits.  Lydia and Moira each pick one up immediately and begin cooing affectionately at them.  Angela cannot even bear to look at them.

She's sure the other two think she's being ridiculous, and perhaps it's even a bit unfair.  They've run the tests extensively—far more extensively, Angela is willing to admit in the privacy of her own mind, than any other self-respecting scientist would tolerate.  But the initial problem with Moira's cellular regeneration tech, the result of the experiments that sullied her good name and earned her a reputation as a cruel and incautious hack, was that it worked too well, and too rapidly, and the patients developed aggressive forms of cancer.

So close to a cure, and instead the patients had suddenly deteriorated overnight.  Many of them didn't live long enough for Moira to reverse the damage.

Moira's argument was that they were willing participants, and that their conditions would have killed them, anyway, had she not used them to perfect her formula.  But those are the sorts of half-truths people tell themselves to justify tragedy after the fact.

"Yes, you have come a long way!" Moira is saying to a perfectly white bunny.  "I think we'd better not delay any longer, don't you?"  She taps its nose.

"Right," says Angela wearily, and retrieves the crate with the other two bunnies inside.  "Let's get to it, then."

Moira continues cooing gently to the rabbit in her arms as they enter the lab and ready the test chamber.  Angela struggles to focus her vision anywhere else.  "On your word," she says.

"There now," says Moira to the rabbit.  "Just a wee scratch."

Angela tenses, but the rabbit does not cry out, and the next sound she hears is Moira setting it gently into the chamber, apparently oblivious to the blood on its side.

Moira closes the test chamber hatch, and Angela releases the healing stream.  The rabbit looks around, confused, but the cut Moira has given it heals itself rapidly, and after another moment even the scar disappears.

"Well done, dotey!" says Moira sweetly as she retrieves the rabbit to replace it with the next.

"I'm sure you've thought of this," says Angela, struggling to ignore the sickening churning in her stomach, "but assuming the other subjects experience no problems, my question is this: how will the healing stream react to multiple subjects, with varying degrees of injury?"

"The body has many markers of injury," Moira tells the second rabbit sweetly.  "The formula is fine-tuned to detect and respond to them, yes it is!  Dr. Ziegler is so worried for your safety that she doubts my life's work, but that's quite all right, isn't it?  We shan't take that as a personal insult, shall we?"

"Moira," Angela snaps.

Moira looks up, evidently surprised by her tone.

"This isn't easy for me," says Angela.

"You've made that quite clear, Angela, and I've told you I understand," says Moira, quietly, and not quite sharply.  She still cradles the rabbit in her arms and strokes it gently while she speaks.  "But in order to test the question you've posed, our options are to drop into a war zone and _hope for the best_ , or to injure these rabbits in a controlled environment where we can almost certainly use another means of healing them, should our tests fail."

"And..." Angela averts her eyes, swallows audibly.  "The long-term effects?"

When next Moira speaks, her tone has a distinct edge to it, even as she is so clearly trying to speak calmly.  "My cellular regeneration formula has not resulted in the development of cancerous cells in nearly twenty years, Dr. Ziegler.  In the unlikely event that it were to occur, we would be able to tell very quickly, and _as I'm sure you know_ , I have since developed a countermeasure.  Your concern for these three rabbits is admirable, _Doctor Ziegler_ , but there are larger matters at stake."

"How do you live like this?" Angela demands, voice wavering, eyes stinging with treacherous tears for the second time today.

"I beg your pardon?" Moira says coldly.

'How do you just...charge ahead, knowing what you've done?" Angela gestures vaguely, wishes desperately that she hadn't spoken at all, wishes she could just leave and never come back.

Moira places the rabbit gently back in its crate.  "Did you not say to me," she says, with a calm that feels almost sinister, "that that was in the past, and that you couldn't have done half your own work without mine?  What is it to be, Angela?  Am I a monster or a miracle-worker?  I'm having a bit of difficulty with the back-and-forth."

"There had to have been another way," Angela insists, bites back treacherous tears and holds her head high.

"There wasn't," Moira leans in, looms over her.  "I ran the tests, analyzed the numbers, but I was dying, and I was desperate.  I assure you I'd have tried it on myself first if I weren't half-dead already.  I was incautious and I have paid dearly for it, but I am alive and well enough to entertain this tired argument, and so you will forgive me if I don't particularly care whether anyone believes I deserve to live or not."

"That's not what I meant!" Angela cries, but the words Moira has spoken twist her stomach and tighten her chest, and she can feel tears threatening to fall even as she has tried so valiantly to suppress them in the face of Moira's cold certainty.  "I'm sorry," she chokes.  Her hand flies to her face, and she turns away in a vain attempt to hide the treacherous onslaught of emotion.

"I should never have come here," she whispers.  "I am a hindrance.  I thought I could...but I can't.  I'm sorry."

Moira is silent and still behind her.  After a long moment, filled only with Angela's quiet sobbing, Moira says, "Take a break, Angela.  I'll finish the initial tests and show you the readings over dinner."

Angela doesn't argue.  She doesn't trust herself to say anything.  She removes her lab coat and scrubs her sleeve across her face before she exits the lab, walks upstairs, right past a befuddled Lydia and out the back door, and she does not stop walking for some time to come.


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Ziegler doesn't show up for dinner.

"I'll go and fetch her," Lydia says, about fifteen minutes past the usual time.

"Leave her be, I think," says Dr. O'Deorain.

"It wasn't the rabbits, was it?" Lydia frowns.  Of the two, based upon what she'd heard before she accepted her assignment here, she had honestly expected to have far more trouble with Dr. O'Deorain than with Dr. Ziegler.

Dr. O'Deorain sips a glass of wine with a subtle frown.  "Unclear."

"It's...odd, isn't it?" Lydia dares, returning to her place at the table.  "For a doctor with her particular expertise to be so sensitive?"

"Odd, yes," says Dr. O'Deorain, "but not as impossible as one might think.  I'm told Dr. Ziegler preferred that her assistants seek out lab animals that were already sick or injured for her own tests.  Whether they followed her orders to the letter or simply pretended to is anyone's guess."

"Even pretending would have been an awful lot of trouble to go to for one so unproven, wouldn't it?" Lydia wonders, stabbing aimlessly at her food.

"Overwatch is fond of taking in promising strays," says Dr. O'Deorain with a shrug.  "Why, don't you think Dr. Ziegler's work makes up for a few eccentricities of character?"

"Oh!" Lydia startles under Dr. O'Deorain's steely gaze.  "No, I didn't mean to imply that at all!  It's just that I wonder at her choice in coming here, surely knowing you don't run your experiments in the same way, and I mean, really, if either of you had said anything on the matter to me, I'd have tried to—"

"Lydia," Dr. O'Deorain holds up a hand, firm but not visibly irritated.  "This is not Dr. Ziegler's lab, it is mine.  I wanted the rabbits healthy.  Experimentation on subjects who are already sick or injured requires a whole plethora of other tests and allowances, utterly unnecessary, and anyway, we are testing my technology, which is already proven in a controlled environment, to render it viable for injury in the field, not..." she waves her hand vaguely, "...miscellaneous laboratory incidents."

"I'm sorry," Lydia bows her head, refocuses her attention on her untouched meal.  "I just didn't want to upset either of you."

"It's not your fault, Lydia," says Dr. O'Deorain, without any discernible emotion in her voice, "nor is this matter your concern.  I'll deal with Angela."

Lydia has half a mind to protest, to remind Dr. O'Deorain that it isn't really her concern, either, but she senses that would not go over well, and so redirects the conversation.  "How did the rest of the experiments go?" she tries, instead.

Dr. O'Deorain's demeanour changes immediately, from tired and troubled to cool and confident, and a cocksure smirk crosses her features.  "As expected," she shrugs.  "I ran the tests twice over and would've had ample time to move onto the experiment our Dr. Ziegler proposed, but I wouldn't like to leave her out of it entirely."

"Isn't that what she wants?" Lydia wonders, perhaps a bit sharply, but there's so much more she's afraid to say.  Lydia didn't get this far in life being coddled, and this is not the variety of coddling she's used to doing, herself.  If Dr. Ziegler won't do her own job, then the work, and the credit, and the honour of working alongside Dr. O'Deorain should go to someone who will.  "I mean, if you'd rather keep working tonight, I can help you."

Dr. O'Deorain looks at her then, more clearly and more directly than she usually does, and Lydia feels herself flush under the intensity of Dr. O'Deorain's gaze.  There are other things she's heard about Dr. O'Deorain, too, and she'd be lying if she said she wouldn't enjoy that kind of attention just as well.

"Not tonight, Lydia," says Dr. O'Deorain, but there's a curious look about her eyes.  "But thank you for the offer, and for dinner."  She picks up her glass and plate and takes them to the sink.

"Well, if you change your mind," Lydia stands, and hopes she sounds nonchalant, and when Dr. O'Deorain turns around they are suddenly quite close in the small kitchen, "or, you know..." Lydia averts her gaze, shyly, "you'd just like the company..."  She looks up into Dr. O'Deorain's striking eyes, regarding her studiously.  "I'll be up for awhile," Lydia finishes at last, with a shy smile, before she makes a hasty retreat.

Dr. O'Deorain is quiet for a moment, before she says, in a low, rich tone that sends a shiver down Lydia's spine, "I'll bear that in mind."

* * *

Angela spends the better part of the afternoon crying, out of sheer embarrassment.  Just when she thinks she has come to terms with how poorly she reacted, a fresh wave of mortification washes over her, and she spends a half hour or so entertaining such melodramatic notions as 'what am I doing with my life', 'why did I ever come here in the first place', and 'has anything I've ever done in my entire life been worthwhile'.

She looks up her old notes from her early days with Overwatch, and her mind catches on a strange back-and-forth pattern in her stream-of-consciousness words by days, or even paragraphs: anguish over whether she is doing the right thing, certainty that she has to do something.  Terror that no matter how hard she tries, someone will always use what she has created to do harm, insistence that the potential for harm does not outweigh the good.

There's one stretch of pages, far closer to the present day than they feel, that reads like utter madness.  It's the day she saw the designs for a biotic rifle, designed by Torbjörn Lindholm, whose family had practically raised her in her difficult teenage years.  She still remembers the flash of rage, wet and dizzying, when she realized how he had drawn from her research, and how no one understood, everyone was certain she was making something out of nothing, and it only drove her madder.

With the clarity afforded to her by the passage of time, Angela can see how deeply the situation affected her, not just the rifle, itself, but the way she was treated for her opinion.  She wonders whether her request to transfer was set in stone right then, long before she fully realized she needed some time away.

Now, she wonders whether she needs more time away than she thought.  Not just from Overwatch, but from the work to which she has dedicated the better part of her life thus far.

Dusk finds her curled up on her bed, gazing out the window and wondering what she would do instead.  She's fully expecting the knock at her door around nine in the evening, but she is not expecting Moira to be the one who enters.

"Would you believe our guileless helper-dog is gunning for your job?" Moira offers by way of greeting.

The huff of laughter comes somewhat violently, and without Angela's permission.  "I would, actually," she says.  "Anyone with half an eye for an opportunity would see I've really bumbled this one."

"Ah, but two grim reapers just won't do," says Moira airily.  "Those bunnies need their guardian angel."

Angela groans and buries her head in her arms.  "Do you think I'm cracking up?" she asks, miserably.  "I knew they'd be fine, we ran all the tests, but I just had this terrible feeling like—" she raises her head only so that she can clench her hand into a fist. 

She sighs and opens her hand to shrug listlessly.  "It wasn't about your work, or not trusting you, perhaps it wasn't about any of this at all.  I'm sorry."  She looks up.  Moira's mismatched eyes are all the more striking by lamplight, her features so much sharper in shadow.  "Can you forgive me?" Angela asks her.

Moira shrugs, and her lips curl into a smile.  "Nothing to forgive," she says.

Angela sighs heavily and shakes her head.  "And as if I didn't feel dreadful enough, why do you have to be so nice to me today?"

Moira lets out a surprised, breathy sort of laughter.  "Oh, I _am_ sorry," she drawls.  "Would you prefer I laid into you when you've obviously taken it all out on yourself already?  My, but you do fancy me a monster."

"No!" Angela cries, throwing out her hands in exasperation.  "It's just—!"

But it's not just anything.  Not just the strain under which she arrived here, not just the strain under which she left Gibraltar, not just that she loathes to see anyone or anything suffering, that it twists her stomach even to think of it.  But she had expected to have to explain herself, expected to lose and have to do what she detests here, anyway, because she imagined that would just be the sort of person Moira is, even wanted her to be, because that would mean that Angela could go back to pretending that she had no interest in whatever exists between them, to pretend that she is the long-suffering martyr here when she could have gone back to Gibraltar where her friends and family are, but that isn't the truth.  That isn't the truth, and it never was.

Angela rests her head in her left hand, and pats the bed next to her with her right.  Moira is still for a moment, but eventually takes the invitation and sits, curling one long leg up onto Angela's bed, but leaving the other foot steadfastly upon the ground.

"Back at Gibraltar, there was a prototype," Angela begins.  "A biotic rifle, they called it, using my healing tech.  There were two kinds of darts, one healing and one a sort of tranquilizer, and then there was a biotic grenade."  She opens her hand vaguely to indicate the explosion, feels herself frowning at the memory.  "I was so upset," she sighs.  "It was exactly what I was afraid of, this...insatiable greed for more and better technology.  I'm sure you can think of a dozen things that could be done with the proper concentration of biotic energy, few of them good."

Angela's eyes trace the length of Moira's leg, knee halfway across Angela's bed, and then she settles her gaze on Moira's hands folded in front of her, elegant and long-fingered even in spite of the strangeness of the right one.

"I'm not stupid," says Angela.  "I overreacted.  I can see it in the journal I kept, and I can remember it in the way I felt.  I believe the term 'slippery slope' was used a few too many times."

She looks up to find Moira's attention rapt, and finds she must avert her eyes to continue.

"But everyone acted like I was crazy," she continues, barely above a whisper.  "My coworkers, my friends, people I thought of as family, suddenly acted as though they had to walk on eggshells in my wake.  That feeling...like the only person who sees a problem is you, like you're mad for imagining it, for insisting that it's real..."

Moira flexes her fingers, like she's struggling to keep them folded in her lap.  "I told you I understood, Angela," she says quietly, "and I do."

The same dizzying gratitude from this morning hits her like a physical force, and Angela lets out a little huff of something like disbelief.  "I didn't...expect you to," she confesses, desperate to be understood in some deeper sense, beyond the words she knows how to say.

"Well," Moira meets her gaze evenly, and her eyes sparkle with the warm light from Angela's bedside table, "I am devilishly clever, you know," she finishes with a smirk.

Angela feels herself smiling, feels tension gathering dangerously in her lower abdomen, feels that at any moment she will be overcome by an urge she could not resist even on her best days.  "Can I ask you one more question?"

Moira bows her head, perhaps a bit dramatically.  "At your service."

"Have you slept with Lydia?"

Moira raises her eyebrows.  "No."

"Are you planning to?"

Moira narrows her eyes.  "You asked me not to."

Angela nods slowly, thoughtfully.  "Good," she says.

"Why?" Moira presses, skeptically.

"Because," says Angela, carefully, even as she feels a rush of nerves like ice in her veins.  She grabs a fistful of Moira's shirt and pulls her into a kiss, and the little noise Moira makes against her lips removes what little doubt remained in Angela's mind.

Moira clutches Angela by the shoulders as she returns the kiss, leans in and hums again, more gently and less stunned, and when at last they break apart, each gasping for air, Angela finishes her thought, perhaps a bit cheekily, "I want you all to myself."


End file.
